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A Bug in Baker Street

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  Obviously, Mycroft bugged Baker Street. 

  Why wouldn’t he? It was clear that his impudent little brother couldn’t be trusted to do anything without a watchful eye on him at all times. 

  It was nothing as blatant as a camera, as Sherlock would have discovered it swiftly and mercilessly. No, Mycroft was cleverer than that. He could deduce anything from an audio clip, so why would he need anything other than an audio feed? It was a compromise of sorts- Mycroft would technically be refraining from ‘watching him’, but without all of the griping of ‘hijacking the machinery of the state’.

  Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a delicate china teacup held aloft by slender fingers. It had been a remarkably easy day, a rarity which did not fail to leave an impression of relief. A neutral expression graced his tired face as he took a sip of the steaming tea. 

  His eyes darted down to his planner after a momentary pause. He had forgotten that both Sherrinford and Baker Street were due for their checkups. With a sigh, Mycroft decided to look in on Baker Street first. 

  He tapped into the audio feed with a tap on his computer screen and waited for the small noise that would indicate the sound was now live. 

  Mycroft was instantly greeted by a loud crash.

  “You-“ thunk, “-absolutely-“ thunk, “-deserved that, Sherlock!”

  “I remain steadfast in my innocence, Jo- ahhh- ow-“

  “You broke the damn coffee table!”

  “You shouldn’t have pushed me backwards so hard!”

  “It wasn’t undeserved. Get on the floor. Now.”

  “Make meeaaahhhh- God-!”

  Mycroft’s eyes widened in what could only be described as the purest form of fear.

  “It’s going to hurt, Sherlock! Deal with it!”

  “I thought you said it wouldn’t!”

  “I lied so you would shut up!”

  “I never would have- goddddd- oh, don’t use that aga- OW-!”

  Mycroft couldn't help but stare at the monitor in horror.

  “Quiet, Sherlock. Show me your hands. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do- ah- fffff…”

  “I’ll do what I damn well please! Give me that.”

   Scritch . “Here. Anything else, sir?”

  “Don’t call me that. You know what it does.”

  Mycroft swallowed with a bit of difficulty.

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I think I rather enjoy watching you struggle. Give me that knife.”

  “Don’t you think I’m... preoccupied at the moment?”

  “Sherlock, I swear to God- don’t give me that look-“

  “Why-“ shuffle , “-not?”

  “Because I will jump you, and I can’t be held responsible for what does or doesn’t happen next.”

  “That sounds like a challenge. I am a bit out of- GOD- ahh- p-practice-“

  “Karma. What did you do with the rope that came with it?”

  “Put it over there. Why?”

  “I have half a mind to use it on you. Might shut you up.”

  Mycroft visibly paled.

  “And I thought you were vanilla.”

  “You’re asking for it.”

  “You’re no fun. Anyway, I’ve studied Houdini’s escape tac- owwww- ahhh-“

  “Don’t test me, Sherlock. I mean it.”

  “Fine. Sir.

  The next sounds that occurred were indelicate, to say the least. Quite a bit of grunting and a little bit of shouting on Sherlock’s part. A bit of swearing and- by GOD- was that... moaning?

  Mycroft shuddered, his face white as a sheet, and clicked off the monitor. After a few moments, he opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the words, so he closed it again. 

  Needless to say, he would be removing the bugs.

 

~

 

  “You-“ John’s foot kicked a piece of wood, “-absolutely-“ kick , “-deserved that, Sherlock!”

  Sherlock grumbled as he cradled his injured hand and moved the giant cardboard box. “I remain steadfast in my innocence, Jo- ahhh- ow-“ he groaned as he tweaked his hand in the wrong place.

  “You broke the damn coffee table!” John yelled, gesturing to a broken pile of wood in the corner. It had once been their beloved table. Now it was just rubbish.

  “You shouldn’t have pushed me backwards so hard!” Sherlock countered, raising up to his full height as he pointed at his hand.

  John sighed and sat on the hardwood floor. “It wasn’t undeserved. Get on the floor. Now.”

  “Make meeaaahhhh- God-!” Sherlock whimpered and obeyed, his hand hurting far too much to try and argue. He glared at John as he carefully examined it, and stifled a curse when it hurt again.

  “It’s going to hurt, Sherlock! Deal with it!” John scolded, looking it over and shaking his head.

  “I thought you said it wouldn’t!” Sherlock whined.

  “I lied so you would shut up!” John hissed.

  “I never would have- goddddd- oh, don’t use that aga- OW-!” He grimaced again and pulled away, but stopped griping at a single icy glance from John.

  “Quiet, Sherlock. Show me your hands. Don’t make me tell you again,” John said calmly, a certain feeling in his voice that showed he was nearing the end of his patience.

  Sherlock pursed his lips with contempt. “You can’t tell me what to do- ah- fffff…”

  “I’ll do what I damn well please! Give me that.” John ordered, gesturing towards a roll of gauze on the floor.

  Sherlock handed it to him with a flourish and a smirk. “Here. Anything else, sir?”

  “Don’t call me that. You know what it does,” John said seriously, the twinge in his shoulder reminding him of the last time he was called ‘sir’.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” Sherlock asked calmly, tucking away his transgression in the back of his mind palace.

  John glared at him once more. “I think I rather enjoy watching you struggle. Give me that knife.” He was still annoyed over Sherlock’s taunt- did he have no idea about what sort of memories...

  “Don’t you think I’m... preoccupied at the moment?” Sherlock snapped, pulling John out of his thoughts with a start. He seemed oblivious to the effect his words had.

  John was seriously starting to be pissed off. “Sherlock, I swear to God- don’t give me that look-“ he growled in warning, vexed at his incessant flatmate.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I will jump you, and I can’t be held responsible for what does or doesn’t happen next,” he hissed, still carefully bandaging Sherlock’s hand.

  Sherlock let out a derisive snort to mask his discomfort. “That sounds like a challenge. I am a bit out of- GOD- ahh- p-practice-“

  “Karma. What did you do with the rope that came with it?”

  “Put it over there. Why?”

  “I have half a mind to use it on you. Might shut you up,” John said, tucking the bandage around his hand properly with a sigh.

  “And I thought you were vanilla,” Sherlock teased, snickering as he looked at John’s wedding band. 

  John took a deep breath. “You’re asking for it.”

  “You’re no fun. Anyway, I’ve studied Houdini’s escape tac- owwww- ahhh-“ Sherlock trailed off after another bout of pain.

  “Don’t test me, Sherlock. I mean it.”

  “Fine. Sir.

  With that, John tackled him, not even caring if he hurt his hand further, because he had warned Sherlock. Sherlock landed on his back with a shout and raised his arms in defence. 

  “Ow- f- that hurts quite a lot, Joh- ah-!” Sherlock wheezed, trying to push John’s weight off of him, but John was steadfast in his refusal. “Get off!”

  “I bloody warned you, Sherlock!” John shouted, his fingers reaching for every bit of skin they could grab.

  “I was joking!” Sherlock said back, still trying to get John to shove off. “Can’t- you- take- a- joke-?!”

  “It wasn’t funny!” John roared, frighteningly close to wringing Sherlock’s neck. 

  Sherlock didn’t take the hint. “Oh, get a sense of humour!”

  John’s eyes went dark as he smiled in that way - the way that silently said he was about to kill someone- and Sherlock gulped.

  “I’ll get a bloody sense of humour, you c-“

  Sherlock raised his hands in front of his face, pale. “Is it too late to change your mind?” he asked meekly.

  “Yeah, a bit,” John responded calmly, before pinning Sherlock’s arms above his head and tickling him.

  To say Sherlock lost it would be an understatement. “I have a-“ he nearly collapsed in a fit of giggles, “-reputation to uphold! Get- ah!- off!”

  “Never,” John said ruthlessly, continuing to attack every bit of uncovered skin on his poor flatmate. 

  Sherlock could barely even speak, much less breathe. Somehow, John knew exactly where he was most ticklish, and was using that knowledge to- almost- its full potential.

  “John- J-John-“ he gasped, eyes wide. “You- ha- missed a spot-!”

  John paused his onslaught for a moment. “Yeah? Where?”

  “Here,” Sherlock said smoothly, leaning up and kissing him with a tenderness quite unlike himself. “I’m rather ticklish here, I must admit…”

  John froze. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he made a mistake.

  Then, John slowly began to smile. “You cock. You did this just so you could- how did you know how I’d react?”

  “You’re very predictable. I’ve been wanting to use that line on you ever since that alley near Irene’s.”

  “Cheeky.”

  “Precise.”

  “Arse.”

  “Kiss me again.”

  “...Gladly.”